Falling for the enemy!
Italian movie star Javier Russo needs to escape his Hollywood life. Isola dei Fiori is the perfect retreat—a lush island in the glittering Mediterranean. What he didn’t expect was having to share his peaceful hideaway with the infuriatingly beautiful Portia Marlowe!
Celebrity reporter Portia is intrigued by her unwelcome and mysterious visitor, and the secrets he’s clearly holding back. Villa Rosa isn’t big enough for both of them, and soon there’s nowhere to hide from their simmering chemistry!
“I want to stay here, Portia. Not in some hotel. Do you think that could be possible?”
Portia. Javier didn’t say her name. He practically sung it.
He didn’t even remember her. Not that she expected him to—really. But she had met him and interviewed him before. And it was kind of insulting for a guy not to remember you—even in the cutthroat Hollywood industry.
Her rational head understood. At a press junket, he met hundreds of journalists and could never be expected to remember them all. On award night he’d spoken to just as many again on the red carpet. She wasn’t any different from any other person who’d shoved a microphone in his face and tried to think of an original question.
But it still stung.
And now he wanted to stay with her. Javier Russo wanted to stay with her.
She lifted her hands from his chest. She needed all her senses to be working. And they were already piqued. A fresh, clean scent drifted up under her nose. She scrunched up her face a second and tried to shake it off. The last thing she needed to think about was fresh, clean Javier Russo.
Summer at Villa Rosa
Four sisters escape to the Mediterranean...
Only to find reunions, romance...and royalty!
Villa Rosa holds a very special place in the hearts of Posy Marlowe and her three sisters, filled with memories of idyllic summer holidays on the Isola dei Fiori. And her recent inheritance of the beautiful but fading palazzo from her godmother, Sofia, couldn’t have come at a better time for them all!
Now, this summer, they all escape to Isola dei Fiori and rediscover Villa Rosa again.
Don’t miss all four books in this fabulous quartet:
On sale June: Her Pregnancy Bombshell
by Liz Fielding (Miranda’s story)
On sale July: The Mysterious Italian Houseguest
by Scarlet Wilson (Portia’s story)
On sale August: The Runaway Bride and the Billionaire
by Kate Hardy (Imogen’s story)
On sale September: A Proposal from the Crown Prince
by Jessica Gilmore (Posy’s story)
Only in Harlequin Romance.
On August 7 Jessica Gilmore brings you an exciting online read—
a prequel to Summer at Villa Rosa.
Available at Harlequin.com.
THE MYSTERIOUS
ITALIAN HOUSEGUEST
Scarlet Wilson
Scarlet Wilson writes for both Harlequin Romance and Medical Romance. She lives on the west coast of Scotland with her fiancé and their two sons. She loves to hear from readers and can be reached via her website: scarlet-wilson.com.
Books by Scarlet Wilson
Harlequin Romance
Maids Under the Mistletoe
Christmas in the Boss’s Castle
Tycoons in a Million
Holiday with the Millionaire
A Baby to Save Their Marriage
The Vineyards of Calanetti
His Lost-and-Found Bride
Harlequin Medical Romance
One Kiss in Tokyo...
A Royal Baby for Christmas
The Doctor and the Princess
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Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
EPILOGUE
EXCERPT FROM BOUND TO HER GREEK BILLIONAIRE BY REBECCA WINTERS
CHAPTER ONE
PORTIA CLOSED THE door behind her and breathed out as the car puttered off into the distance. Finally, peace perfect peace.
Somewhere, on the other side of the house, she could hear the chirrup of birds. After three days of being constantly surrounded by people and chatter it was music to her ears.
She leaned back against the cool wall, tempted to just slide down it.
Her sister Miranda’s wedding was over. She could stop smiling. She could stop fending off the intrusive questions from her sisters. Miranda had looked radiant, lost in the pink cloud of love and drifting off somewhere that seemed a million miles out of Portia’s reach.
She was the oldest sister—wasn’t she supposed to get married first?
The tightness that had gripped her chest since she’d got here eased just a little.
The last wedding guest had left. Miranda was off on her honeymoon, Posy had gone back to work, and Immi had returned to her job in the family business. Finally, Portia could have some quiet.
It wasn’t that she didn’t love her sisters. Of course she did. It was just that being around them was so...busy. They all talked at once, and over the top of each other. And what she really needed right now was a chance to take stock, to weigh up what to do next.
Her discarded mobile phone lay on one of the gilded tables in the large entrance hall almost mocking her.
L’Isola dei Fiori had patchy mobile coverage. Villa Rosa had an old phone line that didn’t currently work, and no Internet.
She didn’t need emails. She didn’t need a phone signal.
The last conversation on the phone had turned her work life upside down.
‘What have you brought us in the last four weeks, Portia? The award ceremony was weeks ago. Your red carpet interviews are yesterday’s news. You’re supposed to be an investigative reporter. This is Hollywood. And at twenty-seven your time is almost up. Bring me a headline story in the next four weeks or you’re history.’
She’d felt numb. Studying investigative journalism at university had been a dream come true. Finding a job in Fleet Street had been much harder. When she’d decided to hitch around the US with a friend for a few weeks she’d no idea how her life would turn out. One random conversation in a small café in Los Angeles had led to a temporary job at a TV station as a runner. When one of the producers had found out what she’d studied he’d asked her to pull some material together for their entertainment gossip show. Portia was smart and Portia was beautiful. Two months later she’d still been there and when the TV host had been involved in an auto accident on the way to the studio, she’d filled in with less than an hour’s notice. The audience had loved her. Social media had exploded. The gorgeous brunette with tumbling curls, dark eyes, plummy English accent and sense of humour had attracted more viewers. Within a year the show had been a hit. All for a job that Portia had landed due to a complete fluke.
Five years on she’d broken more Hollywood stories than any of her rivals. The truth was,
she’d been a little ruthless at first. She’d had a natural tendency to sniff out a story at fifty paces and her boss had quickly pushed her for more and more headlines. At first, she’d enjoyed it. She’d interviewed film stars past and present with aplomb. And while she’d charmed them with her smile, she hadn’t lost her investigative edge. For the last five years she’d happily exposed liars, cheats and corruption in Hollywood. But as time had marched on the colours around her had muted a little. She was becoming jaded. She’d lost the fire that had once burned in her belly. Hollywood seemed to be a cycle, with only the faces changing while the stories sounded the same. And her boss was pushing and pushing her for more scandal-led headlines—the kind that had started to make her stomach flip over.
The thing was, she did have two major stories she could break. But the conscience she’d developed wouldn’t let her. One, about an elderly well-respected actor who was gay. As far as she was aware, virtually no one knew. And no matter how much the information spun around in her brain—and even though she knew it would make headlines around the world—she really didn’t feel the urge to ‘out’ him. The second story, about a major actress who was secretly crippled by depression, would also make headlines. This woman was known for her sense of humour and smile. But it was all completely fake. The thing was, Portia knew why. Her daughter was very sick. And it was a story that she didn’t think she should break either.
It played on her mind. Unless she could find another story in the next few weeks she would have to find a whole new career. And what kind of story could she find on L’Isola dei Fiori? A place with a tiny population and barely any mobile phone signal.
It might be time to take another look at that book she’d been writing for the last three years. Anything would be better than feeling like this.
A gentle sea breeze blew through the hallway. The back French doors must be open.
Space. That was one of the marvels of this place.
Portia wandered through to her favourite room of the house. The ceiling curved into a dome and the washes of blue, mauve and pink—even though faded—made it seem as though a magical sunset were taking place right above your head. If she closed her eyes she could remember this house in its prime. It had belonged to Sofia, her sister Posy’s godmother. Sofia had been a famous model and, a number of years ago, the then Prince’s mistress. If Portia could turn back the clock she’d love to interview Sofia. When she was a child it had all just seemed so normal. A godmother who lived in a huge house on a mystery island, sweeping up and down the grand staircase in a whole array of glittering gowns like some forgotten starlet.
If she closed her eyes she could remember most of the movie stars, rock stars and models of the nineties that had filled the rooms in this house. If she could really turn back the clock she would pay more attention to some of the conversations and liaisons she could vaguely remember hearing and witnessing.
Coming to L’Isola dei Fiori had always been such an adventure. The flight to Italy and then the journey over on the ferry had always seemed like part of a children’s story complete with the image of the pale pink Villa Rosa sitting on the headland.
But Villa Rosa wasn’t quite as magnificent as it had remained in her head. The pale pink stucco had cracked and faded. The exotic flowers in the gardens had been surrounded by weeds. Part of the scullery roof had fallen in and been mended by Miranda’s new husband, Cleve, along with some of the ancient electrics in the house. It seemed that in years gone by each room had only required one plug point.
Portia ran her hand along the wall. Some of the plaster was crumbling. There was a crack running up the wall towards the top of the dome, bisecting part of the beautiful paintwork. The whole place was more than tired. Parts of it were downright neglected.
Even though Posy had inherited it from Sofia, all the sisters felt an element of responsibility. They’d all enjoyed holidays here as children. Sofia had been the ultimate hostess. Sipping cocktails and treating the girls like adults instead of children. There had been no fixed bedtimes. No explicit rules. As long as the girls were respectful and well-mannered Sofia had seemed to be entirely happy.
Villa Rosa conjured up memories of lazy days with beautiful sunrises and sunsets, long hours on the private beach and by the hot spring pool, the many legends about the craggy rock arch bisecting the beach, and a flurry of fun in a rainbow of satins, silks and sequins. Sofia had had the most spectacular designer wardrobe and she hadn’t hesitated to let her mini charges play dress up.
Portia leaned against the wall and sighed. The ugly crack annoyed her. Doubtless it would require some specialist to repair it. Like most of this house. Why did it feel as if the house was reflecting her life right now?
She couldn’t remember. Was Villa Rosa a listed building? Did they have listed buildings in L’Isola dei Fiori? Miranda and Cleve had done some emergency repairs on the house. There were a few liveable rooms. But the kitchen and bathrooms were antiquated and barely functioning. The dusty full attics would probably be an antique dealer’s dream. But Portia knew nothing about things like that and was too wary to even attempt to help with a clean-up for fear she would throw something valuable away.
She breathed in deeply. The warm sea air was wafting through the house bringing with it the aroma of calla lilies, jasmine and a tang of citrus from the few trees along the wall of the garden. She sighed, walked through to the kitchen and retrieved a semi-chilled bottle of rosé wine from the sometimes functioning fridge, grabbing a glass and walking through the double doors to the glass-ceilinged conservatory. There was a sad air about it. A few of the delicate panes were missing or cracked. At some point Sofia had commissioned a specialist stained-glass maker to install some coloured panes in a whole variety of shades, randomly dotted throughout the conservatory. It meant that when the sun streamed in from a particular angle the conservatory was lit up like a rainbow, sending streams of colour dazzling around the space. The doors at the end of the conservatory opened out to the terrace and gardens, which led to the sheltered cove below with a bubbling hot spring. It really was like a little piece of paradise.
She settled on an old pale pink wooden rocker sitting on the terrace that creaked as she sat down. She smiled, holding her breath for a few seconds for fear the wood might split. But the rocker held as she poured her wine then rested her feet on the ledge in front.
The azure sea sparkled in front of her. The horizon completely and utterly empty. It was as if the whole rolling ocean had been made entirely for her viewing pleasure.
She closed her eyes for a second. There was something about this place. Something magical.
In her head she could see the glittering parties that Sofia had hosted. Full of film stars, models, producers, and Sofia’s very own special Prince. Portia sipped her rosé wine, letting the dry fresh flavour with hints of cherry and orange zest fill her senses as she rocked back and forward in the chair.
If she could capture just one of those moments, and bring all the gossip twenty years into the future, she wouldn’t need to worry about her job any more. Times had been different then. No instant social media. No mobile phones in every pocket or every bag.
She gave a little smile as she closed her eyes and continued to rock. A warm breeze swept over her, scented with jasmine and hugging around her like a comforting blanket. It was almost as if time had stood still at Villa Rosa.
And for Portia’s purposes, that was just fine.
* * *
Javier finished nursing his last bottle of beer. He’d crossed over on the last evening ferry to L’Isola dei Fiori and, instead of heading straight to the house, he’d headed straight to the nearest bar.
L’Isola dei Fiori had been a favourite haunt of his mother’s. Her friend Sofia’s house had been a refuge for her when her manic behaviour had got out of control, she’d stopped eating and stopped taking her medication. His father had learned qu
ickly not to try and intervene. Sofia’s presence had been one of calmness and serenity. A fellow model, she’d understood the ingrained eating habits and learned behaviour that his mother just couldn’t shake in later life. Even though she was always beautiful in Javier’s eyes, as his mother had aged she hadn’t taken kindly to losing modelling jobs. Each loss had seemed to spark more erratic behaviour and his film producer father had struggled to cope.
Javier had been too young to understand much. He’d just learned that when his father pulled out the large monogrammed case, it generally meant a visit to Aunt Sofia’s. She’d never really been an aunt, but he’d thought of her in that way. Sofia’s air of grace could never be forgotten. She hadn’t walked—she’d glided. She’d talked to him as if he were an adult, not a child, with no imposed rules or regulations. Instead, Javier had been mainly allowed to amuse himself. Not always wise for a young boy.
But somewhere, in the back of his brain, he’d held fast the little element that this place was a sanctuary. Somewhere to find calmness. Somewhere to find peace. And that was what he needed right now. A place where the paparazzi weren’t waiting around every corner. A place where he could nod at someone in the street without their frowning and wondering where they’d seen him before. A place where he could have a drink in a bar without someone whipping out their phone to take a selfie with him in the background.
He left his money on the bar and picked up his bag. He’d been here for at least three hours with minimal conversation. He liked that. The hours of travel had caught up with him. He patted the large iron key in his pocket. At some point over the years his mother had ‘acquired’ a key to Villa Rosa. It was odd. Neither of them had been back since Sofia’s funeral a few years ago and he’d heard that the house, once in its prime, was now pretty run-down.
Maybe he could make himself useful while he kept his head below the parapet for a while. When he was a teenager his Uncle Vinnie—a veritable handyman—had taken him on many of his jobs. Anything to keep him from turning down the wrong track. At the age of thirteen, with a mother as a model and a father as a film producer, he’d probably already seen and heard a million things he shouldn’t. After he’d almost dabbled with some drugs, his father had shipped him back to Italy and into his brother’s care for the summer. Javier had learned how to plaster and how to glaze. It appeared that sanding and smoothing walls, and cutting panes of glass were therapeutic for a teenage boy. Not that he’d used any of those skills in Hollywood...
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